


Bad Girls Do It Well

by GENERAL_KENOBI22



Category: Uncharted (Video Games)
Genre: Adventure Family, F/M, Gap Filler, Humor, Inspired by Music, Personal Growth, Romance, Slice of Life, Snapshots, Spoilers for Lost Legacy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-30
Updated: 2018-04-30
Packaged: 2019-04-15 02:22:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14149857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GENERAL_KENOBI22/pseuds/GENERAL_KENOBI22
Summary: Chloe has never considered herself a particularly sentimental person (perish the thought!), but certain memories, certain snapshots in time have an inconvenient way of sticking with a person. After all, only two things have remained constant in her life, amidst the chaos, the adventure, and the danger: music and photography. And...perhaps adopted family along the way? Nope, no, absolutely not. Her sentimentality must have *some* limits, surely.





	Bad Girls Do It Well

**Author's Note:**

> Awhile ago, Sony put out playlists on Spotify for the characters of Uncharted: the Lost Legacy (they were awesome). Chloe's was particularly inspiring, and after finishing the game, I found myself really attached to the idea that using a camera to document her adventures was something she's done since the beginning. I know canon dictates that Chloe met Nate and Sully in 2006 during the events of the DC comics; however, in U2, a page in Nate's journal--the one with all the flowers--has an entry that's partly covered, but still reads "Choe, Arms Show, Tulsa 2002". For the purpose of this fic, I'm sticking with 2002. Finally, the title comes from M.I.A.'s "Bad Girls."

**Oklahoma, 2002 - Nate**

_I said to the man, “Are you trying to tempt me_  
_Because I come from the land of plenty?”_  
_And he said, “Do you come from a land down under?”_

—Men at Work “Down Under”

“Would you put that away, and give me a hand?” Nate grits out, clearly not amused by this as much as she is.

“And miss out on this view?” Chloe bites her lower lip as she watches his boxerbrief-clad backside through the lens of her camera. He audibly groans at the sound of the lens shutter, and she’s powerless against her smirk turning into a full on grin. “Unlikely.”

She imagines he would throw her an exasperated look right about now, but as it is, he’s crouched on top of a radiator, toes gripping around the edges, while his unclothed torso—along with the rest of his upper body—is dangling outside the window of their fourth story hotel room.

She watches as he contorts himself unnaturally in an attempt to retrieve one of his Para 9’s that was accidently thrown onto the fire escape during what Chloe is referring to as a particularly enthusiastic bit of foreplay. Not wanting to further encourage the suspicions of the front desk manager with patron complaints of an unregistered firearm, Nate lunged after the gun almost immediately, nary a second thought to his own livelihood.

Initially, she had protested, but after watching him writhe about, his muscles extending and contracting every time he moved, she had to admit it was far more entertaining than whatever she could pull up on the telly.

She lets him struggle a moment more before snapping a particularly gratifying shot and adds, “If you consider me your moral support—and you very well should—then I am absolutely lending a hand.”

He ignores her, focusing all of his attention on retrieving the blasted weapon, fingers splayed in the hopes of extending just a few more centimeters. “Almost… _got it_.”

He flashes her a huge grin once he’s back inside, twirling the Para 9 in his right hand like he’s Steve McQueen, rather than the bloke who was just hanging out of the window in his underpants. It would be absolutely embarrassing if it weren’t so endearing.

“Are you impressed, or what?” he wants to know.

Chloe considers commemorating the moment on film, but suddenly, she really likes the idea of keeping it to herself. Something she can chide herself for being overly sentimental about later. She sets the camera on the table next to her armchair, careful not to knock over the radio, which is providing ambience in the form of 104.5’s eighties at eleven.

( _“Is this your guys’ national anthem?” Nate had asked last night once they had collapsed onto the bed. “Down Under” was playing then, too._

 _“Mmm, yes,” Chloe hums with laughter, her hand tracing aimlessly on his stomach, her head resting comfortably on his chest. “We praise the Queen and country and the musical genius of Colin Hay.”_ )

In response to Nate, she makes a show of fanning herself dramatically. “Whew! You certainly had me—and the residents of Tulsa who bared witness to your little show—hot and bothered.”

Much to her delight, he rolls his eyes before turning his attention to the desk next to the radiator, the same one he had just vacated. His shoulder holsters (as well as his shirt) are draped haphazardly over the accompanying chair, and he carefully places the firearm back into its holder, snapping it closed.

“You’re a piece of work, y’know that?” he says with his back to her. She can hear the amusement in his voice, but she’s more interested in the patchwork of scars stretched across the broad expanse of his back.

“I distinctly recall there being less complaints where my behavior’s concerned prior to your acrobatic performance,” she replies offhandedly. As if sensing her staring, he turns around and leans against the desk, arms crossed over his chest. “Back when we were…”

Nate grins. “…Preoccupied?”

“Is that what we’re calling it?”

“Among other things.”

“Really?” asks Chloe with a raised eyebrow. “Because I was going to refer to it as ‘being-interrupted-by-a-roving-firearm-before-I-could-even-get-my-top-off.’”

His eyes darken in distraction as he takes in her appearance, and for the first time in…well, _ever_ , she feels herself flush. It’s nothing scandalous—more coverage than a bikini, certainly, in her tank top and knickers. But it’s the harsh light of day and her hair is down, and for the life of her, she can’t recall ever sticking around long enough the morning after for firearm antics and flirtatious banter.

It’s bordering dangerously close to _domestic_ , which should raise all sorts of red flags, but...well, she isn’t exactly running away, is she?

All red flags are blissfully swept away, however, when he closes the distance from the desk to where she’s seated and grips the arms on either side of the chair, effectively caging her in place.

“There’s at least one good thing to come out of all this,” Nate insists, not even trying to be subtle as he rakes his gaze over her from head to toe.

“Which is?” It takes every ounce of restraint she possesses to not break into an absurdly delighted smile. Instead, she brushes her fingers, feather light, over one of his lower arms, lingering far longer than necessary.

“That at least you know it wasn’t a gun in my pocket,” he clarifies, barely holding it together. “I really was happy to see you.”

Now it’s _her_ turn to roll her eyes, which she absolutely does, with only a hint, mind you, of amusement. Nate’s arms shake along with his laughter, but his antics are effectively cut short when she sits up and pulls him into a kiss.

Nate’s jokes only get worse from there, but it doesn’t change the fact that they don’t leave the room for at least two more days.

 

**London, 2009 - Harry**

_We’re hell raising_  
_And we don’t need saving_  
_‘Cause there’s no salvation for a bad girl_  
_We’re rock bottom_  
_But there ain’t no stopping_  
_‘Cause it’s you and me against the world_

—Natalia Kills “Problem"

She comes back from Nepal with insomnia and a spare key for a flat in London that belongs to a dead man. There’s nothing particularly fanciful or noteworthy about the place, except that she spent a lot of time (a lot of nights) there researching and planning their steps from Istanbul to Borneo for Marco Polo’s fleet back when Harry…

…back when Harry was alive.

She can’t bring herself to sleep in his bed, so she sets herself up on the couch, but after two hours of listening to rain pelt against the front window and staring wide-eyed at the ceiling, she can’t take it anymore. She throws on a pair of runners and an ancient gray hoodie before heading out into the night.

It doesn’t take her long to find what she’s looking for. She spots the tattoo shop just up the road and turns into the adjoining alley, bypassing a couple of bins before walking down a small set of worn concrete stairs to the building’s side entrance. She walks inside.

Dim, flickering overhead lights expose a seedy gym underneath. There’s a roped off boxing ring in the middle, a few punching bags near the back, and wooden benches with free weights and barbells off to the side. No treadmills or ellipticals to speak of, but there is faint music coming in through tinny speakers around the room.

She heads toward the back, ignoring the unsettling leers coming from some of the male patrons as she walks by. It’s a little more difficult to block out the bald guy in the ring, his swear-laden diatribe directed at the bloke being pummeled, but Chloe manages.

There’s no one else by the bags, which suits her plenty. She wraps her hands, but before she can start, she feels her burner phone vibrate. It’s two messages—one from Nate and one from Sully. _R u ok?_ Nate wants to know. _Damn it Frazer pick up,_ is Sully’s less subtle text of choice. Chloe doesn’t have the closure or emotional maturity to deal with either of them at the moment. Not until she hits something, anyway.

She thinks about Nate’s stupid face, how he traded in death and bloodshed for picket fences and HOAs, while she was left to deal with the fallout of a dead partner, a-a turncoat. She cracks her neck, left to right, before slamming her fist into the bag. A jolt reverberates back through her arm, and it’s enough to light an unseen spark, to set her off.

Sure, Chloe thinks as she unleashes a series of jabs and hooks, Harry could be an absolute tosser, but she’s not entirely sure he deserved the way he went out. Hell, she’s not entirely sure anyone deserves to go out like that. Except maybe Lazaravec. He brought his demise on himself.

 _But_ , a small, resolute voice suggests, _so did Harry_.

She sinks a roundhouse kick, grunting when it lands. The arsehole didn’t even think—just pursued his own ambition, not caring what or, in her case, who became collateral damage.

She blinks as a drop of sweat lands in her eye, swiping at it before landing another uppercut. It wasn’t like she was in love with him (perish the thought!), but he could be charming and sarcastic when it was just the two of them. Admittedly, being with him didn’t require much acting on her part.

She punctuates her next flurry of hits with a muttered swear, and tries to gulp down air. It’s only then that she notices how her chest feels like it’s going to burst open. With an anguished cry, she lands an axe kick that somehow manages to break the punching bag from its chains and send it flying back a few feet. It takes her a moment to calm down, for her shoulders to stop heaving and her heart to stop racing, before she realizes just what has transpired.

“Oi, watch it!” The bald guy from the boxing ring vaults over the ropes and approaches, taking in the broken heavy bag and her disheveled appearance, soaked through hoodie and all. Up close, she notices the cleft in his chin and the scars across his nose and eyebrow.

She brushes the sweat-plastered hair out of her eyes. “Sorry, I—”

“Got swept up in the moment? Yeah, yeah, I’ve heard that one before.” He crosses his arms over his chest. “I dunno if you’ve taken the time to assess what type of establishment this is, but it certainly doesn’t have enough funds to cover property damage every time some lady’s off her nut.”

Chloe bristles at that and reaches into her pocket, too exhausted to call him out on his overt sexism. “Here.” She hands him 50 quid. “Apologies to the establishment from the knackered lady.”

He pockets the money, mouth lifting into a slight smirk, but he doesn’t apologize. “Y’know,” he says instead, “we run an amateur boxing match every week. If your affinity for property destruction can be equally applied to people, you should consider signing up.”

He hands her his card (his name is Charlie, apparently) before he hops back into the ring, presumably to continue his coaching efforts. The tension in her shoulders dissipates, and she shoves his card into her front pocket. Breathing steady once again, she wipes a hand over her brow and snaps a picture of the downed punching bag. She sends it to Nate and Sully.

 _I’m processing_ , she writes back.

 

**Sydney, 2010 - Sully**

_The time has come_  
_To say fair’s fair_  
_To pay the rent, now_  
_To pay our share_

—Midnight Oil “Beds are Burning”

“This easily could have been discussed over the telephone, Victor.”

Sully swivels in his bar stool and looks at her over his glass of scotch. His smile is visible beneath his mustache. “Would you believe me if I said I missed the hell out of ya?”

“No,” she responds emphatically, but her laughter betrays the hardened exterior she has worked so hard to uphold over the years. She absentmindedly stirs her own drink. “I don’t buy it. What I would believe more is if you said you were here on behalf of one Nathan Drake.”

She knows she’s spot on when his cheeks go slightly pink.

“Can’t it be both?” he asks sheepishly, which says a lot about their relationship and his sincerity because Victor’s not sheepish about anything.

She laughs. “I knew it! So what is it this time, hmm? The latest treasure hunt’s gone belly up, and Nate needs a couple hundred quid to bounce back? Or perhaps his latest adventure brings him down under, and he and Fisher need a place to crash? Is that it?”

Sully remains silent and pointedly avoids her gaze. It’s so uncharacteristic, Chloe becomes concerned that Nate and Elena may be in serious danger. “Victor,” she presses, placing a hand on his shoulder, “Just tell me what’s going on. Are they—?”

“Nate and Elena are getting married.”

Chloe nearly chokes on her spritzer. _“Married?”_

“Don’t act all surprised, Frazer. This was bound to happen sooner or later.”

“Or perhaps,” she offers, “not at all?”

Sully clicks his tongue at that in an annoyingly condescending way. He pauses, shifting in his seat, clearly uncomfortable. “Don’t tell me you’re still sweet on him after all this time?”

‘ _Him_ ’ meaning Nate. She doesn’t even have to convince herself anymore. She scoffs. “ _Hardly_.”

“Good. Because for a second there…” He lets out a nervous breath, and slams back the rest of his scotch.

“Wait just a minute, I’m not supposed to be comforting _you_ in all this,” Chloe insists. She motions for the bartender to come over. Before she proceeds any further, she’s going to need a much stiffer drink. “You’re supposed to be offering me false platitudes like, ‘she can’t possibly compare to you, Chloe.’”

“Oh.” Sully takes that information in. He scratches the back of his neck, and then lifts his gaze to hers. “…Do you need me to?”

“Of course not!” Chloe blurts. Mercifully, the bartender returns with her whiskey sour. She pouts, then: “But the gesture would have been appreciated.”

Sully smirks at that. “Forgive an old man his impertinence then, will you?”

They sit in companionable silence for a moment as Chloe nurses her drink. Sully’s turned around, his elbows resting on the bar top as he takes in the view of the beach behind them. When the bartender returns to settle their tab, Sully brushes her off and says he’ll take care of it. Unable to muster any energy to protest, she closes her eyes and relishes the feel of the sun on the bare skin of her back.

“Well, mazel tov to the happy couple, but why would this warrant an in-person rendezvous?” she finally asks when her curiosity becomes nearly insufferable. “Not that I’m complaining about the exceptional company by any means,” she amends.

Sully doesn’t answer right away, but when he finally does, it sounds like he’s tiptoeing across a minefield. “They need another witness, and when I suggested you as a potential candidate...well, Nate and Elena thought it was a great idea.”

Chloe lets that marinate a moment before she asks, “Who, if I may ask, is the other witness?”

Sully beams. “You’re lookin’ at him, sweetheart.”

“Should have guessed.” She sighs dramatically, letting her head loll back. _I’m going to regret this_ , she thinks before she squeezes her eyes shut and blurts, “Fine. But I’m bringing a plus one. This bloke, Charlie, we’re working a job together."

Sully raises an eyebrow at that, but mercifully doesn’t say anything. He claps a hand on her shoulder and pulls his phone out. “I’ll let them know.”

“Wait.” She grabs the phone out of his hands, flips it open, and holds the phone out. “Here, move in closer.”

Sully puts his arm around her shoulder while she gives a thumbs-up with one hand and snaps their picture with the other. They’re both in frame when she looks at the phone screen (of course they are—what is she, an amateur?), so she hands it back to Sully.

“There. Send that over to Nate with the message that I’m in, but he owes me one.”

“From you?” Sully hits send and flashes her a smile of solidarity. “I would expect nothing less.”

 

**London, 2011 - Charlie**

_So slide over here_  
_And give me a moment_  
_I’ve got to let you know_  
_You’re one of my kind_

—INXS “Need You Tonight”

“Do you need any help?” Chloe hollers again, hoping her voice is loud enough to carry to the loft on the second floor. Selfishly, she hopes the answer is ‘no,’ as she has finally settled into the end of his worn, leather couch with a hot mug of tea.

“You’re incorrigible,” Charlie calls back, his voice muffled. She thinks he may have rolled his eyes, which, rude. “I’m fine. I broke my leg, not my executive function.”

She shrugs, causing her oversized jumper to slip off her shoulder. “Have it your way, then. Just don’t come crying to me when you fall and break your neck.”

The warmth from her mug radiates past her fingertips all the way down to her sock-covered feet. She closes her eyes, sinks further into the couch, and pulls her jumper back over her shoulder.

 _It’s good to be back on solid ground again_ , she thinks.

They were lucky to be alive after what happened in Syria. Once they were certain none of Marlowe’s agents had successfully tailed them, all three of them (excluding Charlie, of course, who kept groaning and swearing under his breath each time they hit a particularly rough patch of road) took turns driving until they were able to reach a small airstrip some distance from the main road and far away from the ruins they vacated.

( _“An old work acquaintance. He owes me one,” was all Sully would say once they parked the tour bus, and he began leading them toward a dilapidated hangar._

 _“Which leads me to believe,” Charlie chimes in, hobbling and leaning on both Nate and Chloe to remain upright, “that no one we’re about to meet is licensed to operate a bloody tin opener, let alone an aircraft.”_ )

It was there that they parted ways. Nate and Sully boarded a relatively stable looking plane headed for Yemen, while both she and Charlie were stowed in the back of a run down cargo plane headed for southwest England, surrounded by caged chickens and other small livestock.

As it turns out, Charlie is exceedingly allergic to feathers.

It’s suspiciously silent before Chloe hears the labored sounds of someone trying to hobble down a spiral staircase. When she finally does open her eyes, she’s greeted by Charlie—red faced and wearing a cowboy hat and a pair of white boxer shorts with hearts on them. She has to stifle a disbelieving snort when he proceeds to sling his Danelectro guitar over his shoulders, allowing it to hang low on his hips.

“What are you—?”

Charlie turns his back to her and flips on his stereo, effectively drowning out the rest of her question. When he turns around—nearly losing his balance with his broken leg in the process—he pulls his hat down low and moves his hips in time to the music.

It’s a lot to taken in, but Chloe doesn’t fully dissolve into actual _giggles_ until he lifts his gaze back to her, his brow raised and a wink at the ready. _So slide over here_ , he mouths, hopping across the space in front of the couch with his only good foot, _and give me a moment_. Things enter into truly mental territory when he mimes playing his guitar.

“Are you insane?” Chloe demands. “The doctor said not to put any direct weight on it for at least a few more days.”

She tries to sound stern, but the smile that keeps breaking out on her face betrays her true feelings. She grabs one of the throw pillows to cover her face when some of his dance moves become slightly more…inappropriate. However, it does nothing to hide her laughter or the flush she feels up around her ears.

He pries the pillow from her grasp and tosses it to the side. “What can I say?” He gives her a come hither gesture. “There’s just something about you, girl, that makes me sweat.”

“Absolutely not,” Chloe says, shaking her head emphatically. She sets her mug on the nearest end table, right next to her mobile phone. Seeing it gives her an idea, so she grabs it, easily switching it to camera mode.

“Sorry, love.” She grins wickedly, not sounding even the least bit apologetic.

Before Charlie knows what’s happening, she snaps the picture. It’s a perfect still of him mid-hop, mid-lip sync, and mid-guitar solo. It takes Chloe breaking into fresh peals of laughter before Charlie realizes what has happened.

“Oi,” he cries, pulling his guitar up and over his head. He props it against the stereo. “This was meant to be a private showing.”

“And it will be,” Chloe assures him. A beat, then, “Right after I send this to Nate, Elena, and Victor.”

Charlie does his best impression of crossing the small distance between them in an intimidating manner. “Chloe,” he says warningly.

She rolls her eyes. “Oh, alright, fine.” She sets the phone aside and crosses her arms, pouting. “You’re no fun.”

“Oh, I’m _plenty_ fun, darling,” he retorts, slowly lowering himself down onto the couch. He nearly loses his balance again, but Chloe crawls over to help, holding his arm to guide him. Once Charlie’s settled ( _“Bloody hell,” he grumbles under his breath._ ), Chloe reminds herself that she’s still holding on to his arm.

She makes an effort to pull her hands back, but Charlie snatches her right one, his grip sure. He turns to her, and one glance at his face tells her he has sobered, all mirth quickly gone. She swallows and tries to steady her heart, which begins beating absurdly fast.

 _Run_ , her mind tells her, but before she can obey or even protest, Charlie brushes a stray piece of hair behind her ear. His hand lingers, thumb brushing over her cheek.

“Sully would have killed me, back in Syria, if you hadn’t been there to stop me,” he finally says, voice barely above a choked whisper. She can hear the rawness, the slight waver in his voice, and it, frankly, terrifies her.

“Charlie, that’s not—”

He cuts her off. “No, it is. I was a downright mad man, and if it weren’t for you, Nate—“

“—is alive,” she finishes. With her free hand, she scratches her thumb against his stubble. He closes his eyes, pain evident on his face. “There’s no use in dwelling on what could have been. I was there, you weren’t yourself, and that’s that.” She pauses before adding, “In any event, I would have easily bested Victor. He’s _incredibly_ old.”

Charlie lets out an abrupt bark of laughter before he forces himself to look at her again. It’s a new sensation for Chloe, being looked at with such adoration, that is. She’s not sure how she feels about it, only to say that the desperate commands to flee have simmered.

“Thank you,” he says. He searches her eyes for permission, and she nods imperceptibly before he captures her lips with his.

 _Run_ , her mind tells her once again, but she throws her arm around his neck, disobeying the command entirely.

One week later, during his follow up appointment, Charlie’s doctor gives both he and Chloe a long lecture about the need to avoid any direct weight on his broken leg. Chloe doesn’t even wait until the doctor is out of earshot.

“I told you so,” she tells Charlie proudly. His eye roll is nearly audible.

 

**Glasgow, 2013 - Sam**

_I don’t want to go to school_  
_I just want to break the rules_

—Charli XCX “Break the Rules”

There’s no reason Chloe should even be contemplating this. No reason she should even be here in the first place. It’s like salt and vinegar crisps: absolutely no nutritional value whatsoever, and yet...

…there’s no use in denying the insufferable do-gooder she has become.

A sea of writhing people, colorful, epileptic seizure-inducing lights, and pulsating bass: immediately, Chloe’s senses are assaulted as soon as she enters the club.

 _This has to be some kind of fire code violation_ , she thinks to herself sourly as she pushes her way toward the bar, serpentining through throngs of gyrating bodies and one particularly grotesque snogging couple. ( _“Excuse me!” she practically bellows at them, but they either can’t hear her or simply outright refuse to move out of the way._ )

Finally, she reaches the bar. The bartender gestures to the glass in his hands, then back at her, but she waves him off. She wants to have clear reflexes and a sound mind for this particular meet up. Although she had insisted on a public meeting space, there’s still every chance for danger, never mind that she has no idea what her mark looks like. She imagines something like his brother, but that’s certainly not much to go on, is it?

“Now there’s a lovely lass,” she hears over her shoulder. “Curious that she’s all alone though, innit?”

Chloe turns just in time to see the stranger at the bar drag his gaze over the entirety of her person. He’s stocky with a bristly black beard and a terribly unfortunate complexion. She crosses her arms over her chest, doing her best not to shudder, and challenges him with a surly glare of her own.

“Perhaps,” she grits out, her restraint nearly in tatters, “it’s because she prefers solitude over the company that a man, such as yourself, is able to offer.”

In a magnificent feat, the stranger’s face grows even redder. When he makes an attempt to lunge after her, she can feel her heart pound in tune with whatever eurotrash music—noise, really—the DJ keeps churning out. Before the man can embarrass himself or do any lasting damage, another man enters the fray—his back to her—and keeps the other man from moving any closer by placing an outstretched hand square in the middle of his chest.

“Beat it,” the new guy says. He nods in her direction. “She’s with me.”

Chloe doesn’t even have time to enjoy the first guy’s harried retreat (she thinks he may have mumbled an apology, but it’s difficult to be certain with the heavy bass of the music bludgeoning her eardrums) before she rounds in on the new guy.

“I _beg_ your pardon,” she blanches, her hand on her hip. “I am with no…one…”

Her speech falters once the new guy turns around, and she’s suddenly staring into a pair of hazel eyes (though, admittedly, it’s difficult to tell precisely with the uneven lighting). Everything, from the small bump on the bridge of his nose to the slight slope of his shoulders, overwhelms her with a sense of familiarity. She narrows her gaze at him suspiciously.

“Are you trying to tempt me because I come from the land of plenty?” Her tone is airy, but she chooses her words carefully, testing the waters.

“Do you come from a land down under?” he shoots back hopefully, eyebrow raised. In response to her visible relief, the tension in his own shoulders gives way, and he smirks, wiping his hands on his jeans. “Men at Work, huh? Do you do this for all your meet ups, or…?”

 _Apparently, all the good looks skipped right on down to Nate_ , she thinks idly. Not that Sam is horribly disfigured, by any means, of course. It’s just with his slightly receding hairline and his two-decades-too-old-to-be-fashionable jeans jacket, he’s not traditionally handsome like his brother.

“No,” she answers, hating herself slightly for her train of thought. “Only for known affiliates of Nate’s. Hazard insurance and all that, you know?”

He continues smirking. “Oh, I know.” A scantily clad woman stumbles past them both, brushing his shoulder as she steadies herself by grabbing onto the bar top. For what it’s worth, Sam’s eyes stay trained on her. He shoots his hand out. “Sam,” he says.

“Chloe.”

As they shake hands, she notices a couple of brutes dressed in oversized parkas just behind Sam. This isn’t her scene by any means, but even _she_ knows that’s too much clothing for this kind of environment. They’re ideal for expertly concealing firearms, though. “Not that it isn’t a pleasure putting a face to a name after all these years, but why am I here, precisely?”

He starts to answer, but she’s barely listening, eyes still trained on the two overdressed men behind him. She watches as they push past the sea of people separating she and Sam from the two of them. It’s likely that they’re tailing them, but Chloe doesn’t want to stick around long enough to be certain.

She promptly grabs hold of Sam’s hand. “Let’s walk and talk, shall we?”

It’s less of a suggestion when she begins pulling him forward. “I—yeah, okay,” he relents.

It grows brighter and louder the closer they get to the center of the dance floor. She can feel a bead of sweat roll down her neck as they continue fighting through people, who are essentially packed in like sardines. Thankfully, the two thugs seem to be unable to bypass a particularly rowdy group of dancers when she glances behind her. It will give them enough time to regroup, at least.

“We’re being tailed!” she yells to Sam once they come to a halt. She has to avoid being hit by the elbow of a nearby dancer jumping up and down.

“What?”

“ _Followed_ ,” she tries again, this time accompanying it by walking her fingers over the palm of her other hand meaningfully.

He follows her line of sight, and she can see the understanding hit him almost immediately when he turns back around. “That’s what I was saying earlier,” he yells back. “I’m in a lot of trouble.”

“Well, yes, I was able to deduce that on my own, but whatever for?”

A nearby group of girls nearly knocks Sam over, but he steadies himself by holding on to her hips. Almost immediately, he recognizes his error (it doesn’t actually _require_ a reproachful look from her, but she tosses one in anyway) and lets go, holding his hands up for good measure. _Sorry_ , he mouths, looking fully repentant.

“It’s a long story,” he hollers, narrowly dodging a wayward arm, “but I got roped into working for Rafe Adler—”

“Who?”

“ _Rafe_ ,” he repeats, holding his head in a haughty manner and running his thumb over his index and middle fingers.

 _Money_ , she immediately thinks before making the connection between obscene wealth and heightened levels of tossery.

Ah.

“Adler,” she spits out distastefully.

Sam nods. “Exactly, and he’s got us searching for Avery’s—” He covers one of his eyes with his hands, curves the other hand into a hook shape, and mouths _arghhh_. “—treasure, which is why we’re in Scotland. The trail led us here.”

“Here, as in this horrible den of iniquity in Glasgow?” Chloe yells. They both have been forced into moving along to the music to avoid being hit by any number of the people dancing near them.

“No,” he yells back, barely holding back an eye roll. “St. Dismas Cathedral. We’re not supposed to leave the site, but I had to let someone know in case—” He swallows, the thin sheen of sweat on his Adam’s apple glistening. “—in case something happens. Which is why we’re _here_ , here.” He gestures to the ground meaningfully. “Far away from Rafe’s goons.”

“Have you at least told Nate?” she hollers.

His whole expression falls. “I can’t,” he insists. “He—He already thinks I’m dead—”

Chloe lets out a frustrated groan, her head lolling back. “Of _course_ he does.”

“—which is why I came to you,” he finishes.

“Well, you’ve done some abysmal covert work,” she yells back, her eyes focused just over Sam’s shoulders. He goes to check for himself, but she holds his face in place with both hands. “Our _friends_ are heading toward us. We need to blend, pretend like we’re not dead as soon as they reach us. Follow my lead?”

Sam nods, rather than answering verbally. He follows her as she pushes forward, a little closer to the DJ’s table. When they come to a stop, she drapes her arm over his shoulders, and pulls her phone out of her jacket pocket.

“Hey! Everybody!” she shouts, switching her phone to camera mode. A few of the nearby patrons stop to stare at them. “This lad—” She gestures wildly at Sam. He sheepishly waves. “—just found out he’s going to be a _father!”_

Sam makes a choking sound just before everyone around them erupts into cheers and excitement. She has to pound on his back a few times for him to stop. When he can breathe again, she holds out her phone until the two of them are in frame, as well as a number of strangers wanting to wish the new dad well.

“’ _Baby_ ’ on three, everyone!” she instructs. “One…two…three— _baby!”_

A chorus of ‘ _baby_ ’ can be heard when she takes the picture. The cheers transform into an overwhelming roar as the patrons around them begin dancing wildly, slapping Sam on the back, and splashing drinks everywhere. It’s the precise level of pandemonium needed to make the brutes lose them. At least, for now, anyway.

Sam flinches as a particularly muscular guy claps him on the back in congratulations. When he moves away, Sam fixes her with an aggravated look. “Thanks for that,” he yells, his dour expression particularly hilarious in light of the glitter and champagne raining down on the two of them.

Chloe sighs dramatically, an infectious grin breaking out on her face.

“I live to serve. C’mon, mate,” she adds, brushing some of the glitter off of his face.

Just as she finishes, another bottle of…something douses both of them, and at its conclusion, Sam—hair soaked through over his eyes, mouth in a hardened line—spits out a mouthful like a tiny fountain. Chloe absolutely loses it as she grabs his hand and starts navigating both of them through the crowd.

“Let’s get out of here before your tail notices,” she barely gets out in between laughter.

 

**Brussels, 2015 - Elena**

_We bury it, bury it, bury it_  
_And rise above_

—CHVRCHES “Bury It”

It’s incredibly late—or really early, more accurately—when she gets the call.

The initial ring doesn’t even rouse her. Rather, she groans and turns over, pulling the covers over her head to block out the sound of snoring. But when it grows louder and more persistent, she grudgingly cracks an eye open, only to be blinded by the blue light filtering out from under her mobile as the vibrations cause it to skitter across the end table.

She takes a moment to reorient herself with her surroundings before carefully extracting herself from Charlie’s arm, which is draped across her waist, and wrapping a nearby blanket around her. Sufficiently cocooned, she grabs her phone and pads across the carpet over to the balcony off their hotel room, careful to close the sliding glass door behind her quietly.

She doesn’t recognize the number on the screen, but this is a new phone (the last one not only ran out of minutes, but also plummeted to the bottom of the Thames), and there’s every chance this could be a known affiliate.

She swipes up. “Hello?”

There’s silence on the other end, then, “…Chloe? It’s me, Elena.”

 _Well…shit,_ Chloe thinks rather unceremoniously, sinking on to the cheap plastic chaise lounge, pulling her blanket more tightly around her.

“Elena.” She hopes her voice doesn’t betray the sudden onset of fear sparked by this unexpected phone call. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

It’s not that the two of them don’t communicate—quite the contrary, actually. There’s the occasional e-mail and a handful of texts containing memes about their circle of acquaintances (the last one Elena sent was Chrissy Teigan’s cry face with the text: _when he scales the building to enter through the 8th floor window but you could have picked the lock on the front door_ ). They even follow each other on Instagram (in fact, she had just given a like to Elena’s last uploaded photo, the one of her new camera). However, they rarely speak over the phone. The last time had been—

…Well, the last time had been the night she and Nate separated.

There’s some shuffling on the other end before Elena responds. “Nate mentioned you were traveling, so I tried to time it correctly. Did I wake you up?”

“No,” Chloe insists, clearly stifling a yawn, “nothing less than bright-eyed and bushy-tailed on this end.” She hesitates before quickly adding, “Charlie, on the other hand, is still asleep.”

Chloe can practically _hear_ Elena’s knowing smile on the other end. “How _is_ Charlie anyway?”

They’re not even in the same time zone, yet she can still feel her ears grow hot. “He’s fine, if you must know,” Chloe relents, unable to stop the small smile that stretches across her face. “But now you’re clearly trying to distract me. Is…?” She hesitates, uncertain whether she will be able to stomach whatever Elena throws at her. “…Is everything all right?”

She hears Elena sigh. “Eventually, you’re going to have to give me some more details, you know that, right?”

Chloe rolls her eyes. “Obviously. But out with it, Sunshine: is everything okay? Are you and Nate—?”

“We’re fine,” Elena cuts her off, more hurriedly than defensively, which seems to bode well, in Chloe’s opinion, “or at least, we will be. We’ve decided to…leave the life.”

“Leave the life?” Chloe repeats, her voice hollow. She’s heard this one before.

“More like continue the life, but do it in a strictly legal sense,” Elena clarifies, “including permits, dig crews, no firearms, et cetera.”

Chloe snorts. “So…all things I’ve no patience for?”

Elena laughs at that. “More or less.”

“But this is something you want?”

Elena nods, or at least, Chloe assumes she does. “I suggested it, including funds for a really expensive camera and a small crew, so I can reboot _Uncharted_ , my old show."

“And Nate’s on board with all this…gentrification of sorts?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Fascinating. I wonder what’s got him so generous all of a sudden.” Realizing how that comes across, she hastens to add, “Other than him being irrevocably in love with you, I mean.”

It sounds as though Elena has a retort for that, but instead she simply blurts, “Nate has a brother.”

The silence that falls between them is deafening. “Oh,” is all Chloe can manage—guilt slowly coiling in the pit of her stomach—before Elena launches into the story of what has occurred over the last couple months.

On the street below, there’s some kind of festival still carrying on from earlier in the evening. Colorful string lights dot the perimeter, while the sound of excited chatter and electronic music, as well as the smell of deep-fried smoutebollen, waft up to where she is on the fourth floor. Her stomach growls in response, but she ignores it, focusing only on Elena’s retelling of the events at King’s Bay, how she met Sam, and later, how they barely escaped from New Devon with their lives in tact.

“That’s actually why I’m calling,” Elena says, after she recalls the circumstances that led to she and Nate buying Jameson’s business for their new Stepford—rather than crime—inspired lives. “The last time we talked, you mentioned going back to India to…follow your father’s trail and track down the Tusk. Have you—is that still your plan?”

Chloe makes a choking sound, the question catching her completely off guard. “I—“ she sputters, shocked that Elena remembers any of that conversation at all. “Yes.”

“Since I’m basically retired, and since there’s no chance you would ask Charlie to come along…?”

Chloe glances through the window behind her, the outline of Charlie’s sleeping form visible. “Absolutely not,” she says emphatically.

Elena snorts. “I thought as much,” she admits, “but I think I have another option. The way Nate tells it, Rafe’s right hand man—Nadine Ross—abandoned them right as Avery’s ship caught fire. Questionable alliance aside, Nadine seems like a competent partner to have in the field.”

Chloe pulls her blanket closer around her, eyes narrowing, as a sharp breeze passes by. “And you know this because…?”

Elena lets out an unexpected bark of laughter. “Chloe, she kicked Nate’s _ass_. Not once, but _twice_ over the course of our trip.” She pauses and then quietly admits, “There’s something especially cathartic about it happening on two completely different continents.”

Chloe wipes the tears from her eyes—a combination of laughter and the relentless wind. “Say no more,” she insists breathlessly. As soon as her teeth begin chattering, she decides it’s time to head back inside. “Do you have a way to get in touch?” she asks quietly, gently closing the sliding door behind her. She makes a beeline to the bed, sighing when the covers come up and over her frozen feet.

There’s a slight hesitation on Elena’s end before she suggests, “Call Sam. He probably knows how.”

It takes a moment for the unspoken meaning in her words to settle in, but once it does, Chloe’s face falls and her stomach plummets to the ground.

_She knows._

“Elena,” Chloe breathes, her knuckles white and hands frozen in place as they clutch onto the covers. “I’m so—”

“I know,” Elena interrupts. Her tone isn’t angry, but it’s not exactly warm either.

“I wanted to tell you about him, truly,” she confesses, flinching at how desperate her voice sounds, “but I didn’t feel it was my place. I thought it should come from Nate, and—”

“I know,” Elena says again. “Listen—” she continues, trying to stifle a yawn in the process, “—I don’t want to interrupt your beauty sleep any longer than I already have, so…just keep me posted on your plans for India, okay? Oh, and tell Charlie I said hi.”

That makes Chloe chuckle. “Of course. And, Elena?”

“Hmm?”

“Thank you,” she tells her, hoping her emphasis is enough to cover all multitude of her own sins.

“Of course,” Elena echoes.

The line goes dead, and Chloe is nowhere near satisfied with the residual guilt and accompanying broken record playing over in her mind, especially because she can’t seem to fall back to sleep. So she snaps a quick photo of Charlie (he’s sprawled out on his stomach, boxers riding low on his hips, and a small stream of drool seeping from his lax, open mouth onto his pillow), and texts it to Elena with the caption _six minutes into Jet Lag & Chill_.

She wakens the next morning to a three-crying laughing emoji response from Elena.

It’s a start.

 

**Maharashtra, 2017 - Nadine**

_And I don’t really care if nobody else believes_  
_‘Cause I’ve still got a lot of fight left in me_

—Rachel Platten “Fight Song”

It figures that her hero’s journey doesn’t play by the rules in the least bit. Sure, she stopped the villain, survived all sorts of danger, and even walked away with the treasure. But rather than riding off into the sunset while the credits roll, as is tradition, she finds herself... _pushing_ her ride off into sunset.

Because it bloody well figures that the battery would go dead _here_ , three-quarters of the way up a hill, at the end of their journey.

“Do I have to do all the work over here?” Chloe huffs out. She sets her feet into the dry dirt and throws her whole body into her next push, powered by a second wind. “Or do you plan on stepping up in front of the wicket?”

Sam tears his gaze away from Nadine (…which, Chloe doesn’t even _begin_ to have enough emotional, physical, mental—etc.— wherewithal to address any part of whatever _that_ whole situation may be), and shoots her a bewildered look. “Wicket?”

 _Americans_ , she thinks irritably before making it her top priority to reach the top of this God forsaken hill, if only to sink a fist into Sam’s incredibly punchable face. Up front, she can hear Nadine—who, in addition to pushing, is also gripping the steering wheel to guide the jeep forward—snicker.

“You mean, like, baseball?” Sam wants to know. “As in ‘step up to the plate?’ Because that—” He grunts, pushing into the vehicle, trying not to loose his footing. “—I understand. That I can— _shit_ —that I can work with.”

His stumbling and flailing cause Nadine to burst into outright laughter. She tosses a rare grin behind her in Chloe’s direction. “I follow you, Frazer.”

“Thank you!” she cries. “At least someone is sensible in this group.”

“Yeah, okay, have your fun,” he mumbles petulantly, “but who do you know that collects _cricket_ cards, huh? I’m feelin’ pretty confident that number’s a big ol’ zero.”

Chloe doesn’t trust herself to say anything further, so she sinks all of her physical and mental efforts into pushing the jeep to the top. Her back and legs are killing her, but the thought of a bath and dry clothes in Mumbai once they get this monstrosity up and running is enough to motivate her to keep going, keep pushing.

“Easy, easy!” Nadine calls back. “Just a little more, and we’re over the precipice.”

By some small miracle, they’re on flat land again, and instead of dirt and rubble in her line of sight, Chloe can see the cerulean sky above and a sea of lush green and brown vegetation below. With few clouds for cover, the sun beats down on them relentlessly, doing absolutely nothing whatsoever for the pool of sweat collecting at the small of her back and her chest. At this point, the dark sweat stains on her shirt resemble some kind of beginner’s abstract expressionist painting.

The vehicle settles into place absent the momentum, creaking to a halt. Exhausted, Chloe and Nadine lean against the jeep, trying to catch their breath. For his part, Sam circles around to the front and pops the bonnet. He coughs and wheezes as a plume of smoke unfurls from the engine compartment. Thankfully, it’s white, not black, which—according to Chloe’s _very_ limited motor vehicle knowledge—is the better of the two kinds of smoke.

“I’ll take a look at this battery, see if I can’t get this thing up and running again,” Sam says. He disappears behind the bonnet, and it’s all very gallant until he adds, “You girls just stay there and look pretty.”

Nadine and Chloe exchange looks before they both break into disbelieving smiles. _Pretty_ is certainly the last word Chloe would use to describe her current appearance. Perhaps _artfully disheveled_ instead? Nadine gestures for her to follow her into the front of the jeep, which she does, and the two of them collapse into the driver and passenger seats.

“Are we certain we can entrust this vehicle and our livelihoods to this uncultured _American_?” Chloe directs to Nadine, but says loud enough for Sam to hear.

“You’ve already said ‘American,’” Nadine adds as an aside, “the ‘uncultured’ bit is understood.”

Sure enough, Sam chimes in with a protest. “Hey! I’ll have you know that I used to have a completely cherried out, 1962 Indian motorcycle back when I was in Boston, so I know a little something about cars. Just…let me have this one area of expertise, huh?”

“Okay, okay,” Chloe sighs as if it’s taking a lot out of her to grant him this request, “let’s allow this strapping man’s man to fix our ride home.”

She can’t tell for certain, but she thinks Sam might be frowning. “Thank you,” he deadpans from behind the canopy of the engine compartment, which only serves to make both Nadine and Chloe snicker quietly.

Silence falls over them (with the exception of the _clink clank_ of whatever Sam’s doing to the jeep) as Chloe leans back against the headrest and closes her eyes to the overhead sun. It’s short lived, however, when Nadine speaks up.

“Sam—” He pops his head out to look at her. “—what on earth possessed you to get this ridiculous thing?” she asks, gesturing to the side of her neck that mirrors his, the one with the bird tattoos.

Chloe pops an eye open to witness his response. He ignores Nadine’s insult and instead clears his throat. “If you’re good, maybe I’ll show you my other tattoo.”

Chloe shouldn’t find his concluding wink so…visceral. And yet… “ _More_ than one?” she interjects, while Nadine mimes heaving up the contents of her stomach, accompanied by some over the top retching sounds.

He shrugs. “My cellmate was doing a buy one, get one sort of thing.”

Against her better judgment, Chloe laughs at that. His returning smile does absolutely nothing to her. “I can appreciate a man who recognizes a good bargain when he sees it.”

Sam returns to his work, but Nadine clearly has more thoughts on the matter. She turns to Chloe and jabs a thumb in his direction. “If that’s the case,” she says, referring to Chloe’s earlier comment, “I wonder what kind of bargain resulted in that floral shirt.”

The sound of the engine sputtering to life cuts off any protests Sam may have (and Chloe is quite confident he has more than a few). It doesn’t stop the sound of raucous laughter from she and Nadine, but it certainly drowns out a lot of it.

“See?” he says smugly, slamming the bonnet shut and approaching the passenger seat. “Told you I could do it.”

He goes to grab the door handle, but Nadine holds it resolutely shut. “Back,” is all she says, jabbing her thumb behind her.

Dejected, Sam hoists himself up and over the backside of the jeep and settles onto one of the wheel hubs with one arm draped over his knee. “What a show of appreciation,” he mumbles, somewhat bitterly.

“Now, now,” Chloe begins, shifting into first gear, but her knuckles hit a button on the dash, and she’s interrupted by the sound of the radio. And not just any radio, either: _pop_ radio.

In _English_.

Sam’s the first to recover. “What the hell is this?” he demands, a look of pure disgust hilariously present on his face.

Chloe turns the dial tuner to other stations, but only finds static in response. “I have no idea,” she admits, perplexed. “Surely, out this far, you would expect something in Marathi, not _this_. It’s—”

“—it’s noise,” Nadine interjects sourly.

She goes to turn it off completely, but Chloe bats her hand away as soon as she recognizes the song. “No, listen,” she admonishes, the smile spreading on her face almost painful. “This is actually the perfect song to close out our adventure.”

“How? Is this—is this an American torture device?” Nadine tries again.

“No, this is a ballad of empowerment,” Chloe explains between laughter. Sam leans forward and reaches across to turn the radio off, but Nadine elbows him for his efforts. He falls back, coughing and wheezing. “I’m listening,” she says skeptically, a questioning brow lifted.

“Ow,” Sam hisses, rubbing the spot on his chest Nadine hit.

Chloe ignores him as she transfers the weight from the clutch to the gas pedal to begin their ride home. The resulting breeze, though warm, is wonderful. “Our journey has been one of growth and realizing untapped potential,” she explains. “Between Rafe for you, and Nate for me—”

“—eww, _what?”_ Sam blanches, suddenly no longer interested in his chest pain.

“—we haven’t let anything come between us and our success,” Chloe continues as if he didn’t speak. “So this isn’t just our fight song, it’s our ‘ _prove we’re alright song_.’”

“Our…‘ _take back our lives_ ’ song?” Nadine asks tentatively.

Chloe beams. “Exactly! Elbows,” she says as she goes in for the high five, and their hands collide with a resounding _smack_. They both smile as Chloe digs her phone out from her back pocket. Using voice command, she switches it to camera mode.

“Alright, everyone. Say ‘Tusk of Ganesh!’” she implores.

Sam sinks back onto his seat, arms crossed over his chest. “I hate both of you,” he’s sure to add.

The picture takes, and they don’t stop singing American pop songs until they cross over into Mumbai.

 

**Florida, 2033 - Cassie**

_You ask yourself_  
_When will my time come?_  
_Has it all been said and done?_

—Missing Persons “Destination Unknown”

“Is it here yet?”

Elena looks up from the stack of mail she’s leafing through on the kitchen table to see Cassie bounding into the living room, bouncing on the balls of her feet when she comes to a stop. She gives a small smile as she looks at one of the return addresses through her reading glasses. “I don’t know yet,” she tells her daughter. She offers the stack to her. “Do you want to look through?”

Cassie takes the proffered stack with a quick _thanks_ and begins her own search.

“Is what here yet?” Nate asks, heading for the refrigerator with the intention of grabbing a beer. When he doesn’t see any, he grunts and grabs a vitamin water instead.

Cassie rolls her eyes at her dad (a behavior that has become _increasingly_ common, Elena notes with a mild level of concern) before she explains, without tearing her gaze from the mail, “Aunt Chloe. She promised she would send something for my birthday.”

Elena frowns, placing her reading glasses on the table. “Cass, that’s not for another week.”

“Yeah, I know,” she agrees, “but Aunt Chloe always plans ahead—”

Elena and Nate share a knowing glance (his raised eyebrow makes her chuckle).

“—plus you have to account for international shipping rates and time differences, and—here it is!” she exclaims, holding up an abnormally shaped package wrapped in brown packing paper. Rather than tape, it’s held together with strategically tied twine.

“Hey!” Nate calls as she practically runs toward the stairs that lead up to her room. “I thought we were supposed to go fishing out on the boat today?”

“We are, Dad. Let me just look at this a second,” she calls back, her voice muffled by the floor of house between them.

Once she’s in the privacy of her own room, Cassie closes the door and flops down onto her bed. She examines the package a minute (her name and mailing address are written in Chloe’s scrawl, the purple ink a nice little addition) before pulling apart the twine ties. The contents of the package spill out once she finishes unfolding the packing paper. She reaches for the folded letter first before the enclosed CD case catches her eye. The cover is bright—there’s a blonde woman on the cover with wild hair, bright pink lips, and a swipe of blue over her eyes—and she flips it over to the track list.

“Cool,” she exhales quietly before placing it aside and picking up the letter again.

When she unfolds it, something falls on her comforter, but she ignores it temporarily as she reads the contents of the letter:

_Cassie—_

_I hope this finds you in time for your birthday. I’ve been in Argentina with Sully and your Uncle Sam for the last few weeks. We’re supposed to meet up with Nadine and ~~Charlie~~ ~~your Uncle Charlie~~ Charlie in Morocco for a job, so apologies in advance if I time this incorrectly._

_I pride myself in being the ‘cool’ aunt; however, I’d be remiss if I didn’t express some disbelief over the fact that you will be 16 this year. How time flies! I could launch into stories of you still in nappies, but I do not wish to embarrass you further (we’ll leave that to your father, surely?)._

_I don’t dawdle in sentimentality. In fact, I loathe it for the most part. However, a sixteenth birthday certainly calls for some level of sentimentality, even if we simply dip our feet in for a short while._

_Cassie, you have grown into a remarkable young woman, and I very much look forward to whatever accomplishments you pursue in your future. You are incredibly fortunate to have the parents you do, even though I am sure their own accomplishments may lord over you, somewhat intimidatingly._

_Here’s the shared wisdom bit: I’ve been the bad guy, I’ve been the hero, and I’m here to inform you that regardless which direction your path turns, there is always a chance for second chances. Always a chance for growth into something different, something better. If you don’t follow your parents already tread path exactly, there is still hope for you yet. You command your own way forward, and in the event that you make a wrong decision here or there, you are fortunate to have parents who truly love you and will help you get back on track. And for the truly bad decisions, you can always come to your Aunt Chloe. She knows a guy._

_Or gal, in the case of Nadine._

_Annnd…sentimentality over. Whew. Have the happiest of birthdays, love. ~~Your Uncle~~ Charlie and I plan to be back stateside close to the Christmas holiday next month. Until that time, when you  must update me on that cute boy in science lab situation (the one with the neck tattoo, I believe? Which, please don’t take cues from your Uncle Sam), don’t do anything I wouldn’t do ;)_

_With love,_  
_Chloe_

_P.S.: I’ve enclosed a CD, which is an ancient form of technology that was used to play music in the late 20th, early 21st centuries. Do young people listen to CDs anymore? (Bloody hell, do young people even have to ask, “Do young people, etc.?” Please don’t actually answer that.) Regardless, this is a fantastic album by the Missing Persons (track 4 is a personal favorite), and I thought you might enjoy it as well._

Cassie sets the letter down and directs her attention to whatever fell out of the letter earlier. It’s a photograph of both she and Chloe from nearly a decade ago, Cassie thinks. Chloe’s crouched beside Cassie with her arm around Cassie’s shoulders. They’re both decked out in fedoras and bull whips—Cassie’s even wearing a tiny leather jacket. Cassie remembers the night pretty clearly, including when Sully secretly dumped some extra candy into her trick or treat bag. And then Charlie tried to kiss Chloe on the cheek, but she thought he was a stranger and ended up having to drive him to the ER later for a broken nose.

The memory is enough to make her smile. She flips the photo over and reads the caption:

_Keeping up with the Joneses —2023_

Her dad interrupts her thoughts as he calls out her name (pretty impatiently, actually). She quickly tacks the newly acquired photo next to some other family pictures—there’s one of her on Sully’s shoulder after a soccer victory in elementary school; one of she and Sam in sunglasses, trying to look effortlessly cool; one of she and Vicky in life preserver vests on the boat; one of Charlie teaching her how to play the Martin guitar he bought her in middle school; one of Nadine showing her how to properly land a punch; and one of she and her parents at Disney World (her dad looks _so_ dorky in mouse ears and a Hawaiian print shirt).

“Coming!” she calls back, grabbing her fishing rod, and racing down the stairs to meet him.

**Author's Note:**

> Rachel Platten's "Fight Song" is not a part of Sony's playlist for Chloe, but the idea of Nadine and Chloe bonding over the song made me laugh a lot.


End file.
